HEIL JULIUS!

19 June 2011 - 07:20 By Ben Trovato
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My deviant loinfruit, Clive, came to me this week and asked for a pair of sunglasses. I smacked him affectionately across the side of the head and asked what he needed them for.

They don't make kids like they used to. When he regained consciousness, he said because Julius Malema warned that the future was so bright, we'd need sunglasses.

I made myself a stiff drink and sat down. "You're quoting Malema?" He looked a bit sheepish and didn't say anything. After I had used interrogation methods not yet approved by the United Nations Children's Fund, he admitted that Malema was his hero.

"Brenda!" I shouted. "Call an ambulance. The brat has concussion." As it turned out, he didn't. The paramedics seemed reluctant to leave, so I bought a bankie of schedule 7 drugs and sent them on their way.

Once my nerves had settled and my pupils were dilated, I asked Clive what he meant when he said Malema was his hero. "Dunno," he said, as eloquent as ever. "S'pose coz he's black." I gestured for him to continue, spilling whisky on the cat.

"Black's the new white, dude." Did he just call me dude or dad? I couldn't be certain. I contemplated taking my belt to him, but the last time I tried that, my pants fell down, closely followed by me. This is how children lose respect for their elders.

"You do realise," I said, "that your hero thinks white people are a bunch of hate-mongering, land-grabbing criminals?" Clive was quiet for a while. Too quiet. He had left the room while I was putting the cat on the trickle system. Judging by the amount of tongue action going on, it was more than happy.

I tracked the boy down to his bedroom, where I found him hunched over his computer watching gay porn. I raised my hand to smite him, as the Bible says I must, but on closer inspection saw he was watching a clip of Malema making a speech. I thought it was a big black willy. Stupid of me, I know. A shouting willy. Ridiculous.

"Listen to this," Clive said, turning the sound up. "ANC ... promised land ... white tendencies ... nationalisation ... blah, blah, blah." It was more fun hanging out with the cat. I edged towards the door and was about to make a run for it when the brat swung around in his chair.

"I'm joining the ANC Youth League," he said. "Over my dead body," I said. Before the words had left my mouth, I knew it was a mistake. There comes a point in the relationship between every father and son when inescapable realities need to be faced. Baboons know this better than most. There was an insurrection in my troop and, as the alpha male, it was vital that I asserted my authority. But not quite as vital as getting a fresh whisky. "Fine," I said. "Knock yourself out."

Brenda had gone to bed, so it was safe to hang around the kitchen without the threat of a lesson in which buttons to press to get various appliances to wash stuff. Clive found me there, sheltering in the lee of the fridge. He appeared to be unarmed. I emerged into the light.

"Keep your hands where I can see them, boy." Clive laughed in a quasi-masculine manner. "Relax, old timer," he said. Old timer? Who, apart from Palestinian car bombers with obsolete equipment, talks like that these days?

I gave him a beer to take the sharp edge off his youthful exuberance - which all too easily translates into homicide these days - and he gave me a rambling explanation of how Malema's verbal insurgency speaks to a generation which ... I don't know what he said after that. Epileptics have fits when they see flashing lights. I zone out when I hear Malema's name too often . It might have been the whisky. But I doubt it.

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